


The Unpublished Memoirs of John Watson – April 4th

by She_Who_Must



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/She_Who_Must/pseuds/She_Who_Must
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years have passed since Sherlock Holmes fell to his death, but John Watson has anything but forgotten. Then a mysterious blonde appears in his practice, and he doesn't quite know what to think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unpublished Memoirs of John Watson – April 4th

The black emptiness that I’d been wallowing in for months on end was finally broken by the appearance of a rather stunning, tall blonde in my office. I was seeing patients that day – rather half-heartedly, I must admit. The morning had gone on and on. There had been a child with warts. A couple of people with a bad cold. A strange skin rash, an ear infection. The usual mishmash of misery that nowadays constituted my life.

And then suddenly, in she walked, a blonde bombshell breathing an aura of mystery – as well as thick perfume. She was tall, as I said, even more so because she walked on high stilettos. She wore a burgundy two-piece suit, and her long blonde hair cascaded down in that faux-casual way that suggests a very well-funded hairdresser. Immaculate make-up, blood-red lips, long curled eyelashes.

“Hello, doctor Watson,” she said huskily, and elegantly posed herself down onto the chair in front of my desk.

“Uh, right.” I cleared my throat. “What seems to be the problem then?”

She heaved a melodramatic sigh. “But John, can’t you see there is no problem?” she asked.

“Um. Right,” I said again. Realizing that I was starting to sound quite idiotic, I continued, “Then why see a doctor?”

“Oh, but I didn’t come to see a doctor,” she said with an oddly familiar half-smile. “I came here to see you.”

“And just why would that be?”

 

Stunning as she might be, she was starting to annoy me by now. I had patients waiting outside who actually needed my help. She now smiled fully, revealing a set of pearly-white teeth.

“Because I have some information that will very much interest you. About a certain – friend of yours. Presumed dead.”

She gave a dramatic pause between every other word, possibly in an attempt to make her throaty voice more enchanting. I wasn’t charmed.

“What do you mean?” I snapped.  “Who –“

“It must be three years by now,” she mused, interrupting me. “Three years of mourning, and all for nothing. Tsk.”

She shook her head, making her sculpted locks dance about her shoulders.

“What. The hell. Do you mean?” I growled.

 

 “Dear doctor Watson,” she said, smiling sweetly, “I would just love to tell you more, but surely you have patients waiting for you –“

“No!” I said rather too loudly. “You’ve got to tell me!”

“Oh John,” she said with another theatrical sigh, “Don’t get all worked up, darling. Of course I’ll tell you. Just not here and now.”

“When?”

“How about a date, this evening? In the King’s Arms, near your flat.”

“How do you know where I live? Just who are you?“

“Oh shush, John, shhhh. I’ll let you in on the details tonight. For now, I’ll just say that I’m – intimately acquainted – with your friend.”

“But –“

“Really, I did say now is not the time. This evening, at eight. Bring flowers.”

She winked, and whispered, “I want it to look like a real date.”

She made for the door. My chair scraped noisily over the floor as I abruptly stood up.

“No John,” she purred. “Don’t make a fuss. Just come over tonight, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“But – how do I know I can trust you?”

“Really,” she said, looking at me intently from underneath her long lashes, “What have you got to lose?”

And with that, she was gone. I felt dazed – and yet also, for the first time in ages, alive.

 

\-----

 

I entered the King’s Arms at five past eight, clutching a bunch of red roses. I’d taken care to put on my best shirt and to comb my hair. Like a real date – perhaps too much like a real date. I couldn’t remember ever buying a girl flowers. Well, at least I hadn’t shined my shoes or anything outrageous like that. I would have looked like a right idiot.

I looked around the pub, but couldn’t see her anywhere. Perhaps she was one of those women who just always have to be fashionably late, I thought, and went over to the bar. The bartender briefly looked me up and down and said, “You must be Belinda’s date. She’s in the booth back there.” He gestured with his head towards the back of the pub. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, I went in the direction he’d indicated.

“Ah, doctor Watson,” she greeted me, with a flamboyant flourish of her hair. “How wonderful of you to come!”

“I – uh – couldn’t possibly stay away,” I said, probably not sounding quite as enthusiastic as I should have.

“And you’ve brought roses too, how lovely.”

I took this as a hint that I was to offer her the flowers.

“Here you go. I’m glad you like them.”

“Oh, but I love them!” She made a show of smelling the roses’ perfume while she cradled them in her arms.

“Yeah. Right,” I said, and sat down without any more nonsense.

 

“I’ve been so free as to order a pot of tea for both of us,” she said. “Would you like some?”

“Sure, yes, that’s fine.”

“Milk, no sugar?”

“Yes. That’s how I take my tea. Lucky guess?”

“Let’s say –“ she moistened her lips for a moment “– I was previously informed.”

“So you know Sherlock,” I stated matter-of-factly.

“Shh! We’re not alone here,” she whispered. “Let us be discreet.”

She put the flowers on the bench beside her, and bent her head closer to mine.

“He’s not dead,” she said softly. My heart made a leap in my chest.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I told you, we’re - intimately - acquainted.”

The breathy pauses surrounding ‘intimately’ made it very much sound as if she was shagging him.

 

“What can you tell me about him?” I insisted, again getting pretty annoyed.

“When you thought he died, he just had to – disappear, for a while. Of course he didn’t actually kill himself.”

“I saw him jump,” I said darkly. “I saw his dead body. His -“ My voice broke.

“A clever trick, naturally,” she said, with a strangely sad smile. “You should know him better. You, of all people.”

“But – why?” I said.

“Keep your voice down, John,” she said, with just a hint of a threat in her tone. I nodded.

“Ok,” she continued, “you know that a certain enemy of his had set up an elaborate plot?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You know the purpose of that plot?”

“To destroy all his credibility? I guess?”

“To destroy him,” she whispered dramatically. “To break him. And, if he couldn’t prove to his enemy that he was indeed broken, you would die. You, John, and - others.” She looked away for a moment, and I could see a muscle working in her jaw.

“You too?” I guessed.

 

She chuckled. “No, of course not.”

“It seems to make you a bit emotional, though,” I noted.

“Yes, it does,” she breathed. “But I was going to give you information about your friend. So shall I continue?”

“Yes, by all means.”

“He’s been travelling, these past three years. Severing the threads of his enemy’s web, to prepare for his return.”

“Return?” If I had been excited before, that was nothing compared to what I felt now.

“Oh yes,” she confirmed, and then, her voice lowering a couple of octaves, she murmured, “I’m coming back.”

“You –“ My eyes must have been large as saucers as I gaped at her. At him. The realization struck me like a ton of bricks. Underneath a blonde wig, covered in carefully applied make-up, dressed to look every bit like a woman, there in front of me, sat Sherlock Holmes.

 “Do stop gaping, John,” he said, again in that husky falsetto. How had I not noticed this before?

“People will talk, dear.” He smiled. It was so strange to realise that underneath that bright red lipstick, that lush mouth was actually Sherlock’s. That it was Sherlock now biting his painted lips, and batting his eyelashes seductively.

“Since you seem incapable of further speech, darling,” he teased, “perhaps we should go over to your place?”

I nodded dumbly.

 

 -----

  

I remained dumbstruck all the way to my flat. The way he walked, the way he swayed his hips, it looked so absolutely like the character he was portraying that it was astonishing. He’d even painted his fingernails, the same shade of red as his lips. And he’d shaved his legs, judging from the bronzed calves that showed underneath his skirt. I just couldn’t believe it. The only thing that didn’t surprise me was that he knew exactly where I lived. He led the way.

“Ah, finally,” he said in his familiar baritone when I closed the door behind him. “You have no idea how sick I was getting of that act.”

“It - didn’t look that way,” I mumbled. He started snickering.

“Oh, but I had you fooled! Doctor Watson taken in by the mystery woman! Magnificent!”

With a dramatic flourish, and a broad grin, he tore the wig of his head.

“God,” he roared, “I have to get out of this bloody bra!”

Overcome by all sorts of emotions, desperately torn between an urge to hug him, punch him, or even kiss him senseless, I sank down onto my couch and just stared at him.

 

I hadn’t anticipated my reaction to what happened next. Having thrown down the wig and kicked off his shoes, Sherlock took off his burgundy jacket and proceeded to unbutton his white shirt. There was a very appealing cleavage underneath that shirt.

“Oh, you like the boobs?” he laughed. To my dismay, I felt that I indeed liked them. Undeniably, and very physically so. I was relieved that Sherlock didn’t remark any further on the behaviour of a certain body part of mine, even though he was bound to have noticed.

He shook his way out of his shirt and took off his false cleavage with a groan of relief. “Honestly, I don’t know how women can stand those things,” he grumbled, while bending down to pick up the wig and shoes. When he did so, I was shocked to find that I was still uncomfortably attracted to sight of his behind in the tight red skirt.

“Hmm, would you happen to have a pair of spare pyjamas somewhere?” he asked, turning back to me.

“John?” He waved at me. I was gaping like an idiot again.

“Um. Yes. Of course. Ah. I’ll just go get them then, shall I?” I stuttered.

“Please do. I really, really want to get out of this skirt.”

When I returned with a particularly comfortable pair of blue pyjamas, I found him sitting on my couch, stark naked.

“Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t wait.”

“Sherlock,” I gasped, frozen in the doorway.

And there it was, so familiar on that odd, painted face, that look of intense concentration as he tried to understand exactly just what I was feeling.

“John,” he said hoarsely.

It occurred to me that I was trembling. Apparently, he had noticed too. In three large strides he’d crossed the room, and I suddenly found myself caught in a very firm hug. I couldn’t stop myself then. I started crying. I’m not ashamed to admit that it took me some time to compose myself. At some point I felt a light pressure on top of my head, as though he’d just softly kissed it.  That’s when I realized that I was tightly holding a very naked man. A very naked Sherlock.

 

We began to laugh at about the same time.

“Yes,” he grinned, “imagine what people would say if they’d seen that.”

I abandoned all inhibitions, ignored the ‘what will people think’ warnings going off in my head, and crushed him to me again, whispering over and over again, “I missed you, Sherlock. God, I missed you.”

“I am sorry, John,” he said in a low rumble. “So very sorry.”

Without any further thought, I reached up and kissed him. In a definitely non-platonic way. For a moment, he froze completely, but then, unbelievably, he started kissing me back. His reputation of ‘the virgin’ did not show. The meticulous detail he put into every tender touch was maddening, and I felt my knees go weak.

 When he pulled back, I whimpered.

“Shush, John,” he said gruffly, “I’m getting rather cold. How about those pyjamas?”

I looked at him in disbelief. If anything he looked – very heated indeed. My eyes snapped back up to his.

“Yes, I have feelings,” he murmured. “Surprised?”

He ignored my bewildered silence, and took the pyjamas from my hands. I watched, mesmerized, as he brought his hand up to his painted lips and rubbed them absently.

“Hmm,” he said, “please don’t take it the wrong way, John, but I would really like to have a shower right now.”

My heart sank.

“It’s nothing personal,” he continued. “I’m just getting rather fed up with the ton of cosmetics on my face, and the sickening perfume I’ve doused myself in. Can I use your bathroom?”

“I – I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t know what came over me.”

“John,’ he said, and when I kept mumbling apologies, “John! It’s okay. I don’t mind. I liked it.”

He then marched down into the bathroom, leaving me completely speechless.

 

\------

 

It probably took about half-an-hour before he re-emerged, but to me it felt like days. At first I was too flustered to do anything but pace to and fro, mulling over his words until I felt I’d go mad. Then I made tea. I was back on the couch crumpling up a newspaper by the time the bathroom door finally opened.

“Oh, don’t get so worked up!” was the first thing he said when he walked into the room, rubbing his damp black curls with a towel. He was wearing the blue pyjama bottoms, but they were slightly too short for him. He hadn’t put on the top.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just –“

“- that you’re a bit overwhelmed by my sudden return, and a tad confused by your own sudden homo-erotic tendencies. Do stop fretting. I’m not going to run away.”

He plunked down next to me onto the couch and ruffled my hair.

“Hey,” I cried, batting away his hand. He laughed.

“So how was Belinda?” he asked. “Sexy?”

“Yeah,” I chuckled. “She looked fit to kill.”

“Perfect,” he rumbled.

“Annoying, though,” I added. “Somehow I should have guessed it was you.”

He laughed again, and put his hand in my neck to pull me to him in another impromptu hug.

“You didn’t used to be so touchy-feely,” I squeaked.

“Myeah,” he said, nuzzling my hair, “but then the longer I’ve had to miss you, the more I’ve started to long for you.”

“You – long for me?” I repeated perplexed.

“Still haven’t abandoned your old habit of repeating me, I see,” he said. “I’ve longed for your presence, John. Your proximity. It appears that the temporal distance between us is inversely proportional to the actual physical distance I’ve come to desire.”

“What?”

“As I said, missed you longer, need you closer. I got the impression you’ve been thinking along the same lines.”

 

“Ah, I suppose you’re referring to the – erm – kiss I gave you earlier.”

“Yes,” he purred. “The ‘erm’ kiss.”

“Don’t mock me,” I said indignantly.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, all mock-seriousness, and brought his face close to mine.

“How about another one?” he whispered.

I obliged him.

It was unlike any other kiss I’d ever experienced. Earlier, I’d been too dazed to fully realize just who I was actually kissing. But now - with each of his low moans, each sigh, each whispered endearment - the truth of what I was doing washed over me and set me even further ablaze. I ravished his mouth as he ravished mine. When he broke off the kiss, breathing in short, shallow gasps of air, I put a trail of kisses along his jaw, I kissed his ear, his nose, even both of his eyelids – which then fluttered open again to drown me in a look of deep, dark desire.

“God, Sherlock,” I groaned.

“Yes?” he drawled in an amused tone, and one of his eyebrows described a perfect arch. The self-satisfied smirk that I’d been used to looked profoundly different now that his lips were swollen with my kisses.

“How far are we going to take this?” My voice was uneven and raw with emotion.

“How far do you want to take this?” he asked lowly.

“I don’t know,” I replied, and I felt just a hint of panic creeping up my spine. I was lying on my couch with a raging erection, pressed against an equally aroused man. His hands were underneath my shirt. His face was flushed, his eyes veiled with lust. I was very close to a point of no return, I realised, the point where I couldn’t possibly look at myself in the same way as before. Was I willing to go all the way?

 

His hands drew comforting circles on my back. “There’s no need to hurry,” he said. “I’m not leaving any time soon.”

“I hope to God that you’re not leaving at all,” I said vehemently.

“Never this long again,” he said and tenderly pressed his lips to my temple. “And definitely never like that again.”

Then he lapsed into silence. I concentrated on the patterns his slender fingers were drawing on my skin. After a while, I allowed my own hands to start a careful exploration of his body in turn.

“You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” he suddenly remarked, a hint of surprise in his tone.

I muttered something incoherent, caught up as I was in the pleasure of feeling his smooth skin underneath my inquisitive fingers.

“It’s remarkable,” he continued. “You’re afraid and uncomfortable at the thought of what we might do, and yet not a hair on your head even considers stopping. If I were to ask you to let me take you right here, right now – you’d let me.”

The dreamy haze I’d been in evaporated in an instant. I could feel his hardness against me.

“Do you – do you mean –“ I choked.

“I mean that you display a degree of devotion that is just astonishing,” he mused. “I’m not quite sure what I’ve done to deserve it.”

“But –“

“No, I do not mean I want to penetrate you here and now. Although – the idea is tempting. Perhaps I’d feel somewhat less painfully tense in a certain region.” With a devious look in his eyes he ground himself against me. I whimpered again, though I’m not entirely sure whether it was in fear, or overwhelming need.

 

I think he thought it to be the former, for he started to gently extricate himself from my embrace.

“No – please,” I implored.

“John, if you keep sticking to me like that, we will do things you are likely to regret.”

“I don’t think I care,” I said.

“You do,” he said. “You realize that the moment we go beyond heavy petting, you will no longer be able to claim you are straight. And more importantly, this will compromise your outlook on any further romantic affairs with women. Would you give up your desire to find a wife and family, for me? That is too much for me to ask – and too much for you to give.”

“But - I want you,” I protested.

“No you don’t. You wish to keep me permanently bound to your side and therefore engage in the rituals of human courtship, hoping that a sexual bond may be firm enough to help you achieve this goal. Incidentally, that is exactly what I believe I was doing,” he pondered.

“Fuck your rituals of courtship, Sherlock,” I hissed. “I only bought you flowers because you told me to. I’m not courting you. I’m trying to shag you.”

His eyes widened.

“It’s not me, but you who are chickening out,” I continued. “But I’m not going to let you.”

 

Whatever he wanted to say next was drowned in a demanding, sloppy kiss. He groaned when I moved my attention to his collarbone. His fingers lost themselves in my hair as I laved his nipple with my tongue. When I moved even lower he produced a string of profanities to beg me to please, please not stop. His pleas were unnecessary. Not even the entire British army could have stopped me. I slipped his pants down and feasted on the sight of his slender hips, and well-shaped, very erect member.

“John,” he murmured, but I couldn’t tell if it was in protest or encouragement. I softly stroked his erection with my lips. It twitched underneath my touch. What hesitations I had left faded away completely. Sherlock uttered a guttural groan when I took him into my mouth, as deeply as I could. He tasted salty, but not unpleasant at all, and I swirled my tongue around him to sample every inch of his cock. His hands, bunched up in my shirt, clenched convulsively. He moaned my name again, and this time it couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a protestation.

I peeked up at him, never for a moment pausing my relentless assault on his pulsing length. His head was thrown back, his eyes screwed shut. He wore an expression almost of agony. I hummed with satisfaction. The vibration brought him over the edge, and, with a strangled groan, he came undone. I greedily drank every surge of his seed. I wanted more, feeling insatiable, but at last he was spent. When I looked up again, he was watching me with an unreadable look in his eyes. His fingers slowly traced my jaw. I closed my eyes and tried to calm the painful yearning that was screaming in my veins.

“John,” he said, his voice rough as gravel, “I want you to take me. Now.”

I tried to focus through the haze of lust that almost blinded my vision.

“I – you –“ Words fell over in my mouth. I took a long, shuddering breath in an attempt to compose myself. “Do you know what you’re asking?” I said.

“Do you seriously want me to describe it in detail?”

“I – ah – I guess not. I might disgrace myself if you do.”

“What a delightfully Victorian way of putting it,” he grinned.

 

His eyes sparkled with amusement. As he lay there, so relaxed, so completely open to me, he seemed to me like a Grecian god of sculpted perfection. The thought was like a pang in my heart.

“No,” I rasped, and stood up abruptly. “We can’t do this.”

“What’s holding you back?” he asked. “You can’t have any qualms left about homosexual acts after what you’ve just done. And I want you. So why not?”

“I can’t,” I said. “I just can’t.”

He stood up too, grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me around to face him. I avoided his all too bright gaze.

“You’re still afraid,” he deduced, “but of what? Afraid you’ll fail me? Or-“

“I’ll hurt you,” I said softly. “What you ask isn’t some – innocent act. You will be hurt. I don’t want to do that to you.”

“I don’t think you can ever hurt me, John,” he said with conviction. “I would trust you with my life. Compared to that, this is only a trivial matter.”

“It isn’t trivial to me.”

“Then what do you want?” he asked.

“Could you – could you just sleep with me? Hold me as I sleep? I know it sounds sentimental –“

“Don’t be daft, John. You’ve got a raging erection. Something needs to be done about that. And I don’t think I’d be able to do for you what you just did for me. I –ah – have little knowledge of these matters.”

He looked slightly uncomfortable to admit this.

I suddenly felt a little tearful. Perhaps the emotional rollercoaster of the past evening was finally taking its toll.

“Just lie with me, Sherlock. Please.”

For a long while he said nothing, merely watched me closely.

“Just – please,“ I repeated.

“Yes,” he said, his voice low and gentle, “I will.”

 

 -----

  

In my dreams, he was falling again, over and over, his arms and legs flailing pointlessly, his coat fanned out behind him. A broken ‘Goodbye John’ still echoed in my ears when I woke up with a start. My first reflex was to just curl up into a ball of misery as I usually did. But then my memory came back to me. He was not dead. He was here, with me. He had been lying behind me as I fell asleep. He’d held me with an uncharacteristic tenderness, and just before I’d drifted off, I’d been thinking how fortunate it was that I was so much smaller than him, because it meant I could fit in his arms all the more perfectly.

With increasing despair, I felt around me in the bed. It was empty. A hollow feeling of hopelessness filled my heart. Surely I couldn’t have imagined all that? I threw off the covers, put on the light and reached for my dressing gown. It wasn’t there. Spurred on by this discovery, I ran into the living room. There, to my great relief, I found Sherlock, alive and well. He was sitting sideways in an armchair, the dressing gown loosely about him, one shoulder almost bare. His attention was fully absorbed by my laptop.

My legs carried me towards him of their own volition. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d reached out and stroked the bare skin of his shoulder. His eyelids fluttered closed. “Morning, John,” he murmured.

“Morning?” I said. “It’s three a.m.!”

“That is morning, isn’t it?”

“It’s an unholy early hour to get up, that’s what it is.”

“Nobody said you had to get up.” He looked up at me, and read in my face what I couldn’t express. Then he sighed deeply.

“I’d apologize again,” he said, “but then that won’t make it any better.”

“It’s okay,” I said, even though it wasn’t.

“You should go back to bed, John,” he said. “You have to work tomorrow, and you need sleep to function.”

“But you don’t.”

“Naturally.”

“Won’t you come with me?” I said. I felt pathetic and wondered: would it always be like this?

 

Never stopping his scrutiny of my face, Sherlock shut the laptop, then placed it on the armchair behind him, and proceeded to embrace me passionately. This I had not expected, but I heartily welcomed it. I moulded my body against his, slipping my hands underneath the dressing gown. His hands lowered to my arse. He grabbed me, lifted me up. I wrapped my legs about his waist. Without ever breaking our kiss, he carried me into the bedroom, and laid me down upon the bed.

His hands moved all over me, including down there. And then they were especially down there, and he was doing things to me that stole away my breath. If I’d been capable of rational thought, I might have suspected that he’d just been doing some background reading on how to pleasure a man. My mind, however, was rapidly melting into a puddle of pure ecstasy. At some point I realised that I was coming very close to the edge, and I tried to make him stop. He shushed me.

“Just relax,” he purred in my ear. “Give in to it.”

With a loud moan, I dissolved into pleasure.

 He broke the panting silence afterwards with a complacent “There. Feeling better now?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I still want you to sleep with me, though.”

“I won’t sleep,“ he replied, “but I can work in here with you, if you prefer.”

“I would prefer that.”

“Alright then. But perhaps you should clean up a bit first?” He cast a meaningful look down to my belly, which was covered in the remnants of my rapture. I blushed. He smiled faintly, with a hint of triumph.

 

When I returned from the bathroom, he was in bed with the laptop on his knees. I nestled in close beside him and pressed my face into his naked side. One long-fingered hand left the keyboard for a moment to stroke my hair, before he returned his full attention to whatever it was he was doing. I fell asleep contentedly, to the sound of his fingers tapping away at the keys.

 ------

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was my little piece of post-Reichenbach therapy back in the day.  
> Hope you had fun reading.


End file.
